


All My Troubles Seemed So Far Away

by starseeker95



Series: All My Life [4]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Blood, Body Image, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, The Holy Fanfic Trinity, minor injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:00:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starseeker95/pseuds/starseeker95
Summary: The boys are performing their second concert in Memphis when a cherry bomb goes off on stage.However, John doesn't get the memo and believes he's just seen Paul get shot.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Series: All My Life [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1909093
Comments: 39
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

Paul always felt as if he were being consumed when John kissed him.

For example, as John pushed him backward into the closet, a hungry look in his sparking brown eyes, Paul felt as if he was suddenly reduced to honey or molasses. His mind slowed down, thick and sugary sweet, as John’s big hands held his head in place, his strong fingers digging into Paul’s scalp possessively. When teeth scraped his throat and then bit harshly at his lower lip, Paul felt like his body was melting around him, his hands scrabbling at John’s suit for support.

Surely there was nothing as wonderful as being consumed by John Lennon.

Paul moaned weakly against John’s mouth when the older man pressed even closer, boxing him in. One hand left Paul’s hair and ventured south, making the bassist jump when it cupped his aching groin.

“You like that, Princess?”

The nickname ping-ponged around inside Paul’s skull, sending sparks down his spine. He felt his legs buckle slightly at the sensation. “Christ, Johnny, yes- yes, please-”

Paul felt the lips nibbling at his twist into a wicked grin before they pulled away, leaving him to chase after them. But the hand still in his hair didn’t budge and Paul received a sharp tug, his body jerking with the movement. He couldn’t hold back a pitiful mewl, a raven-haired butterfly pinned in place against the wall.

Caramel eyes wavered in front of him and Paul felt a full-body blush burst across his skin. “Patience is a virtue, Paul-sweet,” whispered that soft nasally voice, those glistening brown eyes disappearing as a warm tongue flicked at the shell of Paul’s ear. “You know we can’t be gettin’ dirty before the show.”

A moment later, Paul was wobbling against the wall, trying to keep his feet beneath himself as John stepped back, laughing manically all the while.

Grimacing, Paul struggled to collect himself, shimming his hips around in discomfort. His trousers felt too tight and there was a telling wet spot where the tip of his cock was pressed up behind his zipper. Cheeks flaming, he gave John a half-hearted glare. “That’s not very nice of you, Johnny. Look what you’ve done.”

John sidled closer, smiling broadly and without an ounce of shame. “Oh no, my Princess is displeased. Maybe if you ask nicely…”

His mind quickly catching up with his body, Paul peeked over John’s shoulder, catching sight of the open door beyond. Now that John wasn’t touching him, this really wasn’t the time to be getting frisky. Maybe after the performance, but certainly not before. Any moment someone could’ve walked in, could’ve seen…

And then there was the crowd outside, a crowd far different than the usual mass of screaming, writhing girls. The KKK was out there, burning their records. There were death threats coming in, threats of violence… even just thinking about, Paul himself abruptly cool down. There was a real chance that one of them could be hurt-

“Paul?”

Refocusing on John, Paul saw too late the flicker of doubt in the other man’s eyes. Trying to smile, Paul lifted a hand and ran his fingers through John’s hair, trying to flatten it back into place. “I’m just nervous, Johnny. I want to, y’know, but…”

John nodded and stepped back, a bit too quickly for Paul to ignore. “I know,” the guitarist murmured, casting a look behind them toward the dressing room door. “Can you believe this shit? And it wasn’t even what I really said…”

Sensing John’s impending self-flagellation, Paul leaned forward and kissed him, hard enough to bruise.

John stiffened immediately, his body wound as tightly as a guitar string as Paul slipped his tongue against the seam of his lips. Paul could feel the roughness where John had bitten into them, a nervous habit he’d recently adopted when he was stressed and had run out of ciggies. Soothingly, Paul licked at the bruised skin and he felt John tremble when he finally leaned back with a smile. “It’ll be alright, you’ll see. You know how the media is, John-love. We’ll be alright.”

“Aye. We will.” John rolled his shoulders before giving Paul a grin. “Wish I hadn’t said it at all. Hadn’t opened me fuckin’ mouth.”

“You? Not open your mouth?” Paul pressed a hand dramatically to his forehead, feigning shock. “What would the world come to if there weren’t John Lennon to stir it up?”

“Ah shut it you.”

“You love me.”

“Indeed I do.”

The pair shared a smile before John stepped back out into the dressing room, headed for the mirror. Paul watched as the other man adjusted his suit, smoothing the material across his shoulders before tucking the edges of the jacket more closely around himself. John repeated the motion twice before he appeared satisfied, glaring into the mirror.

“John-love? Alright?”

John blinked at Paul in the mirror, seeming to have forgotten himself momentarily. “Aye, fine, fine. Not much for this material, is all.”

As John turned from the mirror with a final grimace, Paul pushed down the urge to cave and take him to the closet, better judgement be damned. It was no secret to Paul that John had next to no confidence in his looks. Ever since that reporter’s comment the year prior, it had only gotten worse. They were actually gotten to the point that John refused to have the lights on during-

“Coming, Paulie?”

Shaken from his revery, Paul gave his lover a smile. John stood in the dressing room doorway, his guitar already slung around his shoulders. He wiggled his eyebrows at Paul, his earlier discomfort carefully brushed aside. “No time for a toss off now, babe. Let’s hope Little Paul doesn’t make any surprise appearances on stage, eh?”

Rolling his eyes, Paul swept his bass off of the chair he’d dropped it into when John had so rudely shoved him into the closet. “I’ve no intention of tossing myself off, love. That’s for you to do when we get to the room in a bit.”

John released a cackle before vanishing around the corner. Paul smiled to hear his heels clicking down the hallway, the staccato sound indicative of John’s lifting mood. Paul hoped that, despite the questionable audience outside, the evening would go according to plan. If it did, Paul would soon be showing John just how attractive he thought him to be.


	2. John/Paul

The moment they strode out on stage, the crowd, predictably, went wild. However, accompanying the cheers, there were also shouts of derision and anger. Though the shouting words were indecipherable, John could feel the tension riding thick on the warm summer air. Shifting his guitar’s weight, he stepped confidently up to the microphone, sharing a look with George as he did. The younger man sent him a tight grin before stepping into his own space. They would get through this and be done with it. They had no other choice.

With a glance back at Ringo, John kicked them off into the first song. Even though he was fresh, his voice well-rested and strong, John still had trouble hearing himself over the roar of the crowd. Thanks to his poor eyesight, he couldn’t make out individual people in the crowd below, and so he kept his head inclined, fighting to get lost in his performance. There was nothing to do but push through it, discomfort be damned.

As the set wore on, John could feel his shoulders tightening, his stomach churning. Across the stage, he could see Paul bobbing along to the music. Though he couldn’t clearly make out Paul’s facial expressions, he could tell by his movements that Paul was hiding his own worry. As opposed to earlier on in the set, the crowd was rapidly becoming more and more fractious. Their security detail had already been forced to remove several fans after they’d tried to clamber onto the stage.

_Just a few more songs,_ John comforted himself, flinching as his sweaty nape caught on his collar. A shiver of disgust threatened to overwhelm him as the stage lights bounced his shadow around on the floor at his feet. He couldn’t help but notice that his own silhouette was significantly broader than those of Paul and George and Ringo.

_It’ll be over soon. It’ll be over soon, and then you can fall apart. But not here. Not now…_

John swallowed haltingly before announcing the next song, his throat catching strangely. Hopefully, the crowd would think it was a problem with his mic. “And now, we have a little song we’ve just finished this year.” He plastered a grin onto his face, trying to ignore the suddenly suffocating tightness of his suit jacket. “We’re quite proud of it, and we-”

The moment he heard it, John flinched back from the stage’s edge. A loud popping sound-

_Gunshots… were those gunshots?_

.

Even though Paul knew that John couldn’t see his face (why he refused to wear his glasses on stage, Paul couldn’t understand), he still tried to give him an encouraging smile whenever John turned his head in Paul’s direction. Based on their interaction in the dressing room earlier that evening, Paul knew that John’s mental state was teetering on the edge of a downhill slide.

Ever since the “Fat Beatle” comment, John had been markedly different. His temper had been shorter, he’d been more withdrawn. Even Ringo, the one who’d always managed to draw a laugh from John no matter the circumstances, was having a harder time reaching John when darkness fell over his mind. It seemed that no matter how hard Paul tried, he couldn’t convince John that he was handsome and desirable.

It had become clear long ago that John couldn’t have cared less for the screaming masses of female fans that flocked around them. At first, it had been great, all the attention and skirts free for the pulling. But as time had worn on, John had withdrawn away from them, retiring early with some excuse or another. After all, the masses of adoring fans hadn’t been there before the fame, before the money and the glamor. They wanted what John could do for them. They didn’t really want _John_.

And now, it seemed, Paul couldn’t convince John that anyone really wanted him. Not even Paul himself.

Powering on toward the end of the song, Paul threw John a worried look. To anyone else, John looked the part of the fearless leader, his shoulders broad and squared, challenging the seams of his flimsy suit jacket. He stood with his feet apart, his weight settled evenly atop strong, thick legs, his chin held high under the stage’s lights. But Paul could see that he was struggling, the way his mouth pinched and the vein just below his ear stood out beneath his pale skin.

It occurred to Paul that nothing could contain John, not really anyway. He was his own light, trapped inside a human body. It was no wonder that his clothing always looked more like a fragile prison than simple material. John was a force, a hurricane locked in skin and sinew. The way he moved, the way his eyes flashed whenever they landed on Paul. John was far more than the width of his hips or the softness of his belly (though Paul adored both of those things). And one day, Paul vowed to himself, letting the song’s final note ring out into the crowd, he would convince John of that fact.

Paul traded a smile with George as John cleared his throat and introduced the next song, his voice cutting clearly through the screaming crowd. As he did, Paul adjusted his bass’s shoulder strap, accidently tugging amp cord loose in the process. It fell from his bass’s jack, lost somewhere on the floor at his feet.

_Fucking hell,_ he thought, looking around quickly as he searched for it. He didn’t have a major role in the next song, but he still had to play. It was bad enough already with the-

Something flew out of the crowd and landed on the stage, so suddenly that Paul had no time to move before it exploded at his feet. The brightness blinded him momentarily and Paul stumbled backward, his foot catching on the lost amp cord-

.

John swiveled his head toward the sound, his neck aching with the quick movement. _Was that a gunshot? Were they being shot at?_

Though he lacked his glasses, John stared, frozen in place, as Paul jerked backward, his head flying up from where he had been bent low over his bass. Frozen with shock, John watched as his Paulie fell backward, releasing a startled cry before disappearing behind one of the speakers.

_Oh Christ, oh fuck, no, no, no, please no-_

Pandemonium broke loose.

George, who’d been standing between John and Paul, released a horrified shout before he darted in Paul’s direction, having obviously seen the other man go down. The crowd, having also heard the gunshot followed by Paul’s crumpling form, broke into screams of terror, the mass of them stampeding away from the stage.

John stood, immobile, staring as George fell to his knees behind the speaker. From where he was, John could barely make out Paul’s shoes, sticking out from behind said speaker as George knelt over him, the rest of Paul still out of sight.

_Not my Paul… Not my Paulie, please…_

And it dawned on John then. The truth of this moment, of what had happened.

The crowd was angry because of his comment. Because he’d said they were bigger than Jesus. Well, he hadn’t said that exactly, but… that’s why they were mad. That’s why the KKK was outside. That’s why there had been death threats and violence… it had all been because of John and his stupid mouth-

Hands closed around John’s upper arms and he felt himself being hauled backward, off of the stage and out from under the harsh lights. “Come on, John, we have to go-”

Despite the familiar voice of Mal Evans and the gentleness with which he spoke, John couldn’t tear his gaze away from the other side of the stage. George was gone, replaced by a mess of police officers. Brian was there too, kneeling down over Paul. He was still largely out of sight amid the crowd, but John could still make out his shoes from behind the speaker, unmoving and limp-

“They shot him… Mal, they… he…”

_The shot my Paulie… they shot him because of me…_

“It’s gonna be okay, John. There’s a doctor with him right now-”

And Mal kept on talking, his voice soft as he guided John down into the dressing rooms. But John didn’t hear a thing, didn’t react as he was delivered at last into Ringo’s comforting embrace. He couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything beyond the intense self-hatred that had dogged him for as long as he could remember.

It was true. Anyone he’d ever loved was doomed to die, was predestined to leave him alone.

_And I will never forgive myself._


	3. John

John fisted his hands in his hair, his teeth rapidly turning to grit in his mouth. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t force his foot to stop bouncing, couldn’t slow his racing heart. Even with Ringo huddled close enough for their arms to brush, John still couldn’t wrest his self-control back from the panic gripping him like a vice.

_My Paul… they shot him… they shot Paul, and it’s all my fault…_

_Please let him be alright… I’ll do anything… please…_

“Jesus... how long has he been like this?”

John ignored Brian’s hoarse whisper, clawing his fingers across his own scalp. Beside him, Ringo shifted his seat. “Since they brought him down. What does it look like up there?”

“Chaos. Several injured, the police are still securing the premises…”

Even as Brian’s shoes advanced further into the room, John refused to open his eyes. Instead he squeezed them even more tightly shut, trying to put up his mental walls, trying to prepare himself. _Paul is gone. Paul is gone, lock it all away. Put it all away. He’s left you. You knew he would. Put it all in a box. Everything you’ve ever felt for him, just put it away, lock it away-_

“John? John, can you look at me?”

_Put it away._

John took a breath and opened his eyes, fixing Brian with a careful stare. “Brian.”

The manager cocked his head and knelt down to John’s level where he sat beside Ringo. “John, Paul is-”

“Don’t. _Don’t_ say it. _Please_.”

“But-”

“I can’t hear it, aye? Damn it, Bri, _I can’t hear it_. I know he’s gone and…”

_Say it, John. Tell him the truth and then put it all away._

John connected eyes with his manager and friend. “It’s my fault. He’s gone, and it’s all my fault. I know I should’ve kept me mouth shut, and you don’t have to say it.”

Brian’s mouth opened and closed rapidly, his eyes wide. He reminded John vaguely of a beached fish. “John- Paul isn’t-”

Oddly frantic, Brian looked to Ringo. But the drummer looked to be just as shocked as he was.

Ignoring them both, John pressed on, forcing himself to breath. There would be time to fall apart later, to drink himself into blissful oblivion back in their- _no_. Back in his hotel room. But he couldn’t fall apart just then, not in front of Brian and Ringo. _Later_. “Is there… could I at least see him? Just… can I say goodbye, like?”

It would be best to get it over with, really. John knew himself. There was no way he would make it through a funeral. He’d learned his lesson at his mother’s funeral, when he’d collapsed against Mimi, unable to support himself for the grief buried like a dagger in his lungs. By the time of Paul’s funeral, John knew, he’d be too far gone to know what was even happening.

“John.” Brian titled his head, trying to catch John’s glassy eyes. “Paul isn’t… he isn’t dead. You know that, right?”

 _I know he’s not. Paul can’t die, not really._ John cleared his aching throat, fighting to draw in the humid, heavy air. _I just can’t touch him or hold him where he is now._ “I just think its best, y’know. Before the whole world knows he’s gone. If I could see him one more time. I think that’s for the best.”

The image of Paul laid out in a coffin flitted through John’s mind: _Paul’s cherub face, as angelic as ever, peaceful and still and perfectly contrasting with his combed raven-black hair. Paul’s hands folded together, still for once, but blue-tinged. Perhaps the bracelet that John had gotten for Paul would encircle one of those slender wrists, the chain resting against that little jut of bone that John loved to kiss so much. Would Jim Mac object to that? To laying his son down with John’s bracelet, destined to wear it for all eternity?_ _John hoped Jim would allow it. But then again, he never had liked John very much-_

“Dammit John! Paul isn’t dead. _Christ_. What do you _think_ happened, son?”

Hands latched on and fiercely shook John’s shoulders, jarring him out of his reverie. Coming back to himself, John realized abruptly that he’d been holding his breath, envisioning the swing of the shovels as they covered the coffin with dirt, sealing his Paulie away from him forever. Jerking, John tilted his head up and gasped, meeting Brian’s frightened eyes. The manager looked distraught, his brow furrowed as he stared down at the young musician. “John, what do you think happened to Paul?”

At John’s side, Ringo moved closer, the back of his hand brushing against John’s own. A calming steadying touch. “Johnny? Are we alright, mate?”

John blinked once. Twice. Christ, he _really_ needed to start wearing his glasses, and damn what anyone thought about it. They certainly would make crying easier to hide. “I saw him. They shot, Paul, Bri. They shot him and he died. He fell backward. I saw him. He got shot ‘cuz o’ me-”

Brian’s shoes scuffed against the laminated floor. “Christ-damnit, John, that isn’t what happened at all! He tripped over a cord. Paul tripped-”

“And someone threw a cherry bomb.” John swiveled his head to look at Ringo. “I saw it go off. It exploded at his feet after he dropped his amp cord. Startled him good, it did. I saw him trip over the cord and fall right back into the speaker. That’s all. Reckon he smacked his head-”

“N-no- I _saw_ him- he got _shot_ -”

Ringo hurriedly fished a lighter from his pocket, passing it off to Brian. “No he didn’t, Johnny. I was right there behind Geo. Ye probably saw the flash o’ the cherry bomb. Heard it too. But Paulie just tripped, see. He hit his head right nasty, I bet, and that’s likely why he didn’t get up straight away.”

John barely reacted when Brian lit a ciggy in his own mouth and pressed it into John’s trembling hand. Hurriedly, the guitarist sucked in a greedy lungful before giving Brian a look. “But… are you sure Brian? Did you see him?”

The manager nodded quickly and lit a cigarette for himself and Ringo as well. “I came straight down after he was loaded up. He was a bit out of it and his head will need stitches. They said he probably has a-”

_Paul’s alive._

“I imagine our Paul won’t be at all pleased with the bald spot, but it’ll fill in with time-”

“When can I see him?” John looked between them, ignoring the annoyed look on Brian’s face. “Are the police with him? They have to make sure those bastards can’t find him-”

“John, listen-”

But John was already shaking them off, climbing unsteadily to his feet as he headed for the dressing room door. “Is Geo with him too? Paul needs someone with him. He doesn’t get on well in hospitals, y’know. Which one did they take him to? And why did George get to go?”

 _Why didn’t_ I _get to go with him?_

Brian frowned. “George was simply the closest one to him when he fell. That’s why he got to ride-”

“Can I see him? When can I see him?”

“John, it won’t help having-”

“But what if he needs me?!” John whirled back to face them, his hand vice-tight on the door’s handle. “Who’s gonna help him shave? You know he does it twice a day, aye? Do they know that? And what if he has nightmares? He dreams about his mum, y’know, but sometimes- _sometimes_ -”

Sometimes Paul still dreamt of drowning, of sinking beneath the waves and into the darkness. He always woke up gasping and choking, his chest working and his eyes wide with fear. _Would George know what to do? Would he know to pet Paul’s hair gentle-like, to pull him close and whisper song lyrics in his ears until he eased back to sleep?_

“John, we can’t just-”

John fixed his manager with a cold look. “I don’t give a _damn_ , Bri. Where is Paul and _why am I not with him yet?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pushy, worried John is PEAK John :)


	4. Paul

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *trigger warning*
> 
> There is a brief mention of KKK members in robes.

Paul blinked open blurry eyes.

“There y’ are Macca. Get enough beauty sleep, did you?”

Paul grimaced and a pained groan slipped from him, unbidden. Flexing his fingers, he recognized the familiar texture of cheap linen beneath himself. _Christ, am I in the hospital then?_ He hadn’t been in the hospital since- since-

Panic burst across Paul’s mind and he jolted upright.

“Paul! Paul- stop-”

“Mr. McCartney, you can’t move-”

Despite George’s pleas, Paul continued trying to escape, trying to get away from whatever was causing him pain. With darting eyes, he managed to catch sight of his bandmate sitting beside him, his body hunched so as to not smack his head against the low ceiling. It occurred to Paul suddenly that they were in a vehicle, an ambulance by the looks of it. He froze at the implication. “John,” he managed, dread crowding his senses. “What happened? Where’s John? And Ringo?”

George rolled his eyes and planted his free hand firmly on Paul’s heaving shoulder. After a moment of confusion, Paul realized that George’s other hand was pressed firmly to the back of Paul’s own head, applying pressure to an unseen wound, the one causing him the most pain. “If I know John, he’s not too far behind us. What, am I not good enough for you, Paulie?”

Unable to focus, Paul ignored George’s teasing and hurriedly tried to peer over his shoulder. He stopped, however, when the movement immediately made his vision spin. Swallowing back a wave of nausea, Paul closed his eyes to steady himself before he tried again, his head pounding with every movement that he made. Even as Paul turned and moved about, George’s hand stayed steadfastly in place on the back of his aching head.

At Paul’s back, a blond man was ripping open a fresh roll of gauze, focused entirely on his task. His gloves bore streaks of red, as did the bits of gauze strewn across his lap. Paul turned back to George, his panic rising once more. “Where are we? Did I get hurt somehow?”

_Had he almost drowned again? Where was John?_

“Aye, Macca. Do you remember what happened?”

Finally looking at George, Paul shook his head in the negative. When he did, a sharp pain lanced through his skull, ricocheting around behind his eyes. “Bleeding… what happened, Geo? Where is everyone?”

George pursed his lips and folded his hands on the edge of the bed. “Medic-man there says I can’t tell you what happened. They have to make sure you can remember on your own.”

“I don’t care what fucking happened, Geo. Where is John and is he hurt? You said they were behind us-”

George and the blond man shared a look before George shook his head. “John is fine, he’s probably giving Eppy the Devil for not letting him come with us. We were on stage at a concert. Do you remember that much? Paul?”

 _John is fine._ Paul pulled in a sigh, feeling a cool sense of relief wash over him. _John is fine._

As Paul calmed own, he noticed belatedly that his suit wasn’t wet. And his mouth was stale, sure, but it was void of salt water, his eyes free of any sand granules. “We… we were on stage…”

“Aye, that’s right. Do you remember what happened?”

“There… my bass came unplugged! Right?”

George grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Then what?”

“There was a loud bang at my feet. It scared me and I…”

 _Christ._ He’d tripped and fallen over. _How embarrassing._

Before Paul could dwell too long over his latest mishap, however, he felt George’s hand suddenly pull away, replaced immediately by a cold burning sensation. It took everything within Paul not to jerk away, to release the surprised yelp that caught in his throat. He fought to hold still as the medic continued to clean the injury with sure hands. “I smacked my head on the speaker…”

Again, George nodded. “Someone threw a cherry bomb and it exploded at your feet. Scared the audience good, it did. And us.” George looked away then, out the ambulance’s side window. “We all thought you’d been shot, y’know.”

“You… you thought I’d been shot?”

George seemed so young when he finally met Paul’s eyes again. “Everyone started screamin’ and runnin’. Coppers were tryin’ to keep everyone calm-”

_“Christ.”_

Silence fell over them as the ambulance jolted into motion, a route away from the Coliseum finally cleared with the help of several police cars. The blond medic gently guided Paul’s head forward and began to dab at the nape of his neck with a clean bit of gauze. “I doubt it’ll need stitches,” he mused, steadying Paul with a hand. “I reckon you’ll have a nasty bump for a while though. The main thing they’ll be worried about, Mr. McCartney, is whether or not you have a concussion. You don’t seem to be experiencing any severe memory loss though, so it can’t be anything too severe, I imagine.”

Paul grimaced as the ambulance thumped over a pothole. “Do the others know what hospital we’re headed to?”

_Does John know where I am?_

“Yes, I had a chance to speak to your manager, Mr. Epstein, before we loaded you up. They should be following behind somewhere.”

Paul allowed himself a steadying breathe, satisfied with the medic’s answers. A warm hand came to rest on his upper arm and he gave George a weak smile. “Hazza? You know that I-”

“I know, Macca.” The younger man squeezed his friend’s arm, his eyes fixed out the window. “I understand.”

The ambulance made a sharp turn and Paul grabbed at George wrist, his head spinning with the motion. “How far to the hospital?” he gritted, fighting to keep his composure. He had no doubt that John was causing enough of a ruckus on his own. It wouldn’t do for Paul to come apart as well.

“The hospital is just a few minutes out, Mr. McCartney,” answered the driver in the front. “Of course, it might be longer than that before we can get you there though…”

George sat up a bit straighter, catching the driver’s uncertain tone. “Come again? But you said… oh…”

The ambulance rounded a corner, leaving the Coliseum’s parking lot to reveal the screaming mass waiting near the street. Paul couldn’t hold back a groan at the sound, his eyes blurring a bit at the edges. _Christ, couldn’t they keep it down just a bit? My head-_

Despite the valiant attempts of the local police, people still pressed toward the car, their screams piercing Paul’s ears. His stomach turned as he realized they were sheering… they were angry.

The medic Paul’s back shift nervously. “Jesus…” he muttered, his gloved hand tightening on Paul’s shoulder. “Bobby, how’re we gonna get them out of here now?”

The driver shook his head in disbelief. “Is that… is that what I think it is?”

Paul turned to look, but George stopped him with a hand on his cheek. “Don’t, Paul,” he whispered, his eyes wide and fixed on something over his childhood friend’s shoulder. “Don’t look.”

Something was reflecting in his eyes, something bright and flickering and orange, something that eclipsed the flashing of the patrol car lights…

_Fire?_

Shaking off George’s hands, Paul turned around. At the scene before him, he quickly forgot the pounding in his head.

There was a break in the crowd as the ambulance crept further forward and Paul caught sight of a fire, the flames curling high into the evening sky. Around it, people were taking turns throwing things in, chanting and shrieking with obvious delight. It only took Paul a moment to recognize what they were burning.

Records. _Vinyls_. Paul felt his heart leap into his throat, his breath escaping in a gasp. They’re burning _us_.

“Paulie…”

George’s eyes glistened with tears, his face pale and terrified in the dim lighting of the ambulance. Paul was reminded suddenly of how young he was, of how young _both_ of them were. _We just wanted to make music,_ Paul thought, his mouth too dry for him to speak. _We just wanted to play music…_

Unable to watch the tears fall down George’s face, Paul looked back out to the fire ahead. White-robed individuals orbited the flames like hateful, wailing planets, the eye slits of their hooded faces bottomless and void of any hint of humanity. They were throwing all kinds of things into the fire, from records to posters to magazines. Bits of the items fluttered up into the night sky, quickly disappearing among first of the evening stars. The smells of melting vinyl and charred cardboard filtered into the ambulance and Paul felt his gorge rise, his heart pounding against the inside of his skull. This was far more than any of them had ever bargained for-

“Fucking Hell,” the driver whispered, his face orange in the fire’s glow. “Get them on the floor. Right now. We can’t let them be seen, Chris, hurry-”

Hurriedly, the medic guided Paul down onto the floor, his gloved hand still pressing gauze to Paul’s battered head. George curled up beside them, his long legs tangling together in his hurry to duck below the windows and out of sight. Paul wasn’t even embarrassed when George’s hand slid into his own, slick with sweat and shaking with fear.

Despite Paul’s own terror, he was at least grateful for one thing… John wasn’t with them.

John was the one they were after, all because of that misinterpreted comment. It was small blessing, Paul thought distractedly, allowing the medic to push his spinning head between his knees. At least John was still (presumably) back in the relative safety of the Coliseum’s dressing rooms_

Something shattered on the street outside the ambulance’s window and Paul squeezed George’s hand even harder. _Please, God, if you’ve ever given a damn for me… don’t let them get John. That’s all I ask…. Please. Don’t let them get John._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor babies :,(
> 
> Also, fun fact. My dad was there during the Beatle burnings in Birmingham. And did I mention that he kept his copy of Rubber Soul in his car to hide it from his parents?


End file.
